


Shake Me Down

by pantykinksam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angry Sex, Dean Sells His Soul, Drunk Dean, Drunk Sam, First Kiss, First Time, Headcanon, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Stanford, Pre-Slash, Protective Dean Winchester, Slash, Time Jump, angsty, samdean - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-04-17 02:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4648947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantykinksam/pseuds/pantykinksam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's got just enough time left on the clock to make things right with Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Thing That We've Become

**Author's Note:**

> One day this'll be as impressive and as long as 'Sure Got a Dirty Mouth' ok ?! ? ?? !

Sam’s hurt and maybe it’s for real this time.  
From the backseat the yellow lines on the pavement blur together with the rest of the road and Dean’s grip is too tight on the steering wheel and he’s yelling too loud but Sam can’t hear.  
Street signs blend with sidewalks and pretty soon Sam can’t tell the difference from the road lamps and the stop lights. It’s so fucking dark. He starts to close his eyes but Dean’s shaking him awake within minutes, and Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s worried about keeping him from passing out. Dean can go fuck himself. He closes his eyes for just a minute, and he sees streams of red behind his eyes and blood on Dean’s cheek. Dean’s got a tight white-knuckled grasp on his knee, and it’s enough to keep him awake. Sam’s trying to remember if he’s ever seen Dean this scared. 

Small towns turn smaller in the rearview mirror, and Sam is panicked and fuckin’ terrified, and Dean can feel his pulse through his hand on the back of Sam’s neck. The traffic signals are broken, or at least Sam’s pretty sure. Red-yellow-green-red-yellow-green flickering back and forth and Sam can’t remember how they’re supposed to work. They’ve passed six or seven decent motels in the stretch of a few miles, or maybe a hundred, Sam’s lost count. Dean hasn’t stopped once, and there’s orange streetlights in his eyes. He’s pretty fuckin’ beautiful, Sam thinks. 

Sam can’t speak. Hasn’t for miles. He’s so bone-tired he could collapse, and it’s tempting to fall into Dean until they get where they’re going, but Dean’s /really/ not in the mood for anything except getting Sam home and so he slumps against the door and stays quiet. Choked sobs scrabble up Sam’s throat and his lungs burn from keeping it back. 

Sam starts to hallucinate halfway to Sioux Falls, but he doesn’t tell Dean. Dean’s knees are hitting the bottom of the steering wheel with every jittery bounce of his leg, and Sam’s pretending not to notice. Sam sees a wendigo on the side of a country road, and tucks his feet under the seat out of habit. He tastes blood, and blows hot wet air onto his clammy palms. The sound of Dean’s breathing is entirely surrounding, or maybe it’s the car engine. Sam drifts off and dreams of bloodied sheets and stopped hearts. He wakes up and his head is killing him. Sam’s gonna die in here. Die dreaming about a dead girlfriend’s smile and Daddy’s voice and Momma’s song, but all that’s really left is that look in Dean’s eyes, deliverance and and redemption in those sea-greens, and Sam’s pretty sure he’s okay with that. 

Another flood of headlights along another dirty highway and Dean’s singing low and gravelly under his breath, and Sam’s watching him dig stubby blunt nails into the denim of his thigh. Doesn’t think Dean knows he’s doing it. He almost asks if Dean’s okay, but they both know the answer and it’s just to break the ice, and besides, Dean gets there first. Sam shrugs him off, watching the red and blue streaks of a wailing cop car drive by in the dark.

“Fuck off, Dean.”

Sighing, Dean rolls his shoulders in a stiff shrug, fingers tap-tap-tapping at the steering wheel, and his elbow is out the open window. Sam scowls, sleepy-shuttered eyes fighting to keep him up. He’s got a slice along his cheek. He keeps concentrating on Dean’s bloodied kneecaps, and blinking briny droplets from exhausted lids.  
Sam is bleeding. Has been for around four borders now. Maybe more, it’s too dark to tell. Sam is bleeding. Dean is screaming at Sam to put pressure on it. They’re going so fast that Sam’s gotta keep his eyes closed so he doesn’t find himself following every streak of painted green trees along the way. The car is rattling, unraveling from itself, and Dean still won’t pull over. It’s dark as dark, but Sam sees it now, Dean’s hands are slippery with blood. Sam’s ribcage is wet with it, thick dark blood streaming from him, and /oh/, he gets it now. He can’t keep a grip, but he’s clawing at it with his shaking fingers, reaching out for Dean the best he can. Feels himself going into shock, can see the whites of his eyes glowing in the sideview mirror. Dean really needs to stop driving. If he could just get stitched up… Please, please, ten miles till Bobby’s and they’re so close and Dean’s gasping between his teth because. Sam is quite possible dying. Dean hisses behind his teeth and pinches the bridge of his nose, smearing crimson along his brow. //Jesus, Dean, pull over// And Sam’s more grey than pale, the color sucked out of him like an hourglass, tumbling out of his abdomen. It’s too dark. Dean can’t focus. Tells himself to keep going, but deep down he knows they’re in the clear now. Tells Sam over and over, gritting his teeth until he’s sure he’s ground them down like sand in the sea, “S’gonna be okay, m’gonna get you there, just hang in there, Sammy baby. Gonna bring you home.” Sam can’t hear. Ears ringing like he’s on a battlefield and he really can’t see anything anymore. He’s pretty sure this is it, but Dean’s got a crazy blood slicked grip on his left thigh and he’s not letting go anytime soon. And Sam loses consciousness, long shaking fingers tightening around Dean’s collar, and he’s gone. Dean goes perfectly still and swerves to the side of the road. In the humid night, Dean can barely pick out their separate heartbeats, even in the silence, and he’s on his knees on the cold gravel, Sam’s long brown legs hanging out of the car. On the highway, by the woods, Sam comes into focus. It’s approximately 3,000 degrees in Dean’s skull, his head hot, because Sam’s /dying/. He hallucinates of Sam in a swimming pool, cool air in his lungs and wind in his hair, and he gets it together. Dean can’t remember the last time he slept. 

Clear thread slices through his gums, and he winces, threading a tight stitch into Sam’s skin, and Jesus, if there wasn’t so much blood…  
The last of the bourbon seeps through Sam’s wound and Dean almost wishes he’d saved himself some. He’s so close, and Sam’s almost back together again, and Dean tastes blood. Quivering fingers aren’t ideal, but then again, nothing about this is. Dean’s watch beeps and he jumps, snipping the thread with his front teeth and cradling Sam’s head in his arm. It’s almost three a.m., and he’s settled Sam back against the seats, and he’s driving again. The Summer’s almost over, and he can smell it in the silent wind, like it’s waiting for it too. So hot, so fucking hot, and the wind whipping his wet cheeks might as well be shower steam.  
Dean drives past Bobby’s and thinks about how Sam looks right before he loses consciousness. Thinks about how Sam’s feel when they’re flat against his stomach in those nothing houses in those nothing towns. Thinks about Sam. Thinks about how good it is to be alive with Sam. Another nothing motel comes into view, and this time he swerves into a blacked out parking lot and slings Sam over his back. Tries to keep him suspended above the ground, but Sam’s all long tan limbs, and he’s stricken with a sudden hatred for the change that has come over his brother, this new kind of Sam that’s dragged him down and sunken to the bottom of his veins, and he’s swimming in Sam, and Sam’s in him like blood, and it’s too late now. Hates what’s been done to them, ‘cause of how much he /needs/ it like he needs Sam in his bed and Sam’s breath in his lungs.


	2. Back Against The Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean hugs his pillow and imagines it to be Sam’s waist. There’ll be blood on the sheets in the morning, but neither will mention it. If he’s lucky, maybe Sam will still be there in the morning.

“Sam?” Dean says.  
Sam’s eyes open, glazed over and a little dazed but hazel as hell and golden-specked, and Dean’s almost positive a part of his heart is in those eyes.  
“Sam? Are you awake, Sammy?”  
Sam almost makes a sarcastic remark, /no, Dean. I’m not awake/. Because his head is fuckin’ burning up and maybe it’ll feel cool on his tongue, but he hears the thrum of Dean’s pulse against his cheek, throat bared to Sam’s lips as he whispers in Sam’s ear, and Sam’s so fucking /close/. He can feel the soft tap of Dean’s fingers against his exposed hipbone, and all of a sudden he really wants to tug his shirt down. Always tapping, Dean’s fingers, never still, and Sam’s torn between whether he wants to stab a fork through his hand or kiss them still. Sam stirs.  
Dean exhales shortly, a small sigh of relief that he hopes goes undetected.  
“Told you we were gonna get you back home.” Dean murmurs, hot air on Sam’s ear, mostly to himself and Sam tenses, a shudder running through him till his blood runs cold. Dean says his name once more, even though Sam knows he knows he’s awake. He’s shaking now, grinding his teeth hard against the silky velvet of his cheek until coppery blood floods his mouth. Counts his heartbeat and lets his eyes wander along the painted green scenery over Dean’s shoulder, speckled with the endings of Summer, wilting flowers and falling leaves. Home. 1...2...3.... counts his heartbeat until he doesn’t want to kill his brother anymore. Counts the scattered telephone poles and road markers through the tint of the windows. Feels his heartbeat slow.

Headlights splash across the hood, then slip of the trunk again, and Sam knows just where they are. He grips Dean’s wrist in a two-fingered cuff, and lets Dean carry him out of the car, easy easy easy until he’s halfway out and his forehead slams against the dome of the light on the roof, and his head lolls back, a stream of curses spilling from split lips. Dean’s shoulders tensed, and it’s a testament to something that Sam can feel his cringe just by the tightness of his muscles, all worry and regret in his motion.

Dean hauls his boy inside like he carried him out an eternity ago, bursts in like a storm, screen door slamming behind them, baby brother dangling from his tired limbs. Dean pretends he is bringing a blackout-drunk Sam home from a bar. He didn’t get Sam drunk often enough. Tried to focus on simple things like that. Dean is burning, jittering as he puts the kitchen at his heels and heads toward the bathroom. The black dirt on the soles of his shoes grimes the tiled flooring and he’s turning the knob of the faucet before he realizes what he’s doing. Miles from society, and Dean’s skin is still crawling. They’re miles into nowhere, and there is no way they're getting out of here quickly enough if they crossed paths with a threat. Something was always trying to kill them, and there was always the possibility, a far too close a close for Dean to want to make.  
Back against the cold wall of the safehouse Sam’s called home since John dropped his boys on the gravel pathway for the first time so many years ago, a thick sheen of panic sweat cooled and tightens on Sam’s forehead, and he’s trying to keep it together for Dean’s sake. The sun has fried Sam to frayed nerve-endings and he lets himself entertain the idea that he’s still asleep in the backseat.  
When he opens his eyes, Dean’s hovering over him, pale skin and eyes like searchlights, but Sam tries not to notice. Tries instead to concentrate on the way his body’s gleaming in the window lighting, wet trails of a trillion water droplets glistening across his chest. Oh god. Showered Dean always so perfect, soaked through the skin, slippery and beautiful as fuckin’ ever. How fuckin’ in love is Sam? Real fuckin’. Dean’s lips are moving now, and Sam’s focused intently on the water trickling down Dean’s tanned skin, meeting in a pool at his heel. Steel hands on his shoulders pull him back.  
“Good to see you back, Sammy.” Dean’s teasing, but he isn’t.  
An acute indrawn hiss and a scowl with a muted, “Go to hell.”  
Dean is surprised to find that he thinks he deserves this one. More of a surprise that he feels his heart breaking, so loud it might as well be audible.  
“Look, I’m sorry man.” He crouches down so he’s face to face with Sam, slides down the wall. Dean’s half naked, but they both pretend to ignore it. The trees creak and rustle outside the thin walls, and Sam slumps further down the wall. The space at his back feels cold and wet through his blood-caked shirt, and he squirms uncomfortably, but still he did not speak, suffering only through extended sideways glances, Sam’s tongue caught between his teeth. Minutes pass and then three hours and now Dean’s asking if he wants a beer. Sam feels haunted, cursed or tainted or something. His mind is overrun with the smell of Dean, the air heady with him, and all he sees and feels and /is/ is Dean, so he flips Dean off and limps to bed, rage simmering under his bloodied skin. Refuses to take a shower, just cause he knows he can’t take that much Dean in a room that size. Strips off his socks, angry at the world and jerking at every noise, alert for nothing at all.  
Sam won’t sleep, and he knows this as well as Dean, but they’ll both pretend he’s napping.  
He wakes from a false sleep with a start, and white lights explode from behind his eyes, but he’s keeping his voice down, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Tells himself Sam never liked him confronting him about his pain anyway. Prays it’s just a migraine or something, nothing to do with that loss of blood, /Jesus, so much blood/. The thought propels him up off the ground, bottle in hand, and he scrambles to Sam’s side. Sam’s scratched his stitches bloody again, and Dean keeps his eyes on Sam, else he’s gonna get real angry real fast, and Sam’s been crying, but like everything else, he plays it like he doesn’t notice.  
Wants to wipe that tortured look on Sam’s face more than anything else in the whole world, though.  
“Hey.” Dean reaches for the grubby lump of cotton on the ground that was yesterday’s shirt and dabs at Sam’s abdomen, held him still with a hand on Sam’s chest.  
“S’okay, s’not as bad as it looks.” His quivering voice told a different story, but he kept his expression blank and his fingers steady. Dean’s fingers come off of Sam’s cheek wet, and he’s nauseous with the idea of sucking them clean- wants Sam’s blood as his blood-but that’s not the kind of life they lead, so he looks away and works at the gash on Sam’s arm now. the expression on Sam’s face is unreal, warped and frantic and sparking a slow burn in Dean’s heart.  
“Can’t look. Feels like hell, though. Like. Actual hell.” Sam finishes lamely, and for some reason that chills Dean to the bone, and he reaches for the bottle again.  
“Know you’re gonna pull through, right?”  
“Sure, Dean.” Sam scratches at the crusted blood on the bridge of Dean’s nose, and Dean shakes him off.  
“M’fine. Not mine.” Sam’s breathing is coming in scattered ragged puffs, and he’s tugging at Dean’s neck with one lanky arm, and Dean gets the message, but kinda wishes he hasn’t. Knows the minute he climbs into bed with this beautiful boy, he’s never gonna get enough.  
“C’mere. C’mon.” Sam isn’t gonna let this go, so Dean’s slipping on boxers, curtained by the towel clinging to his waist, and he’s crawling into bed with Sam. The silence is more than deafening, like he can say anything and it’d float from his lips and fade into the wind with the rest of the unspoken ones. Dean’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. His chest feels deflated, like an old tire in a salvage yard, his words snatched away.  
“I-”  
Sam covers his head with his pillow, muttering another inaudible phrase under his breath, and Dean knows to keep quiet. Prays not to cling to close when sleep washes over him. Keeps his distance and faces the other way. Dean hugs his pillow and imagines it to be Sam’s waist. There’ll be blood on the sheets in the morning, but neither will mention it. If he’s lucky, maybe Sam will still be there in the morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok tbh THis was written late at night so it looks like ill have a lot of editing in the a.m but you gotta do what you gotta do


	3. Anything Will Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean are a card house built on sand, and the wind is picking up.

Sam stayed. 

Sam stayed for months, through bitter silences and the change of seasons through the thin cracked windows of a myriad of deserted residences on the extremity of forgotten little towns with a rarity of sidewalks or pavement at all. Stayed and let the impala wear down its new set of winter tires, stayed and watched them sink and sulk, wilting with the frigid temperatures, and Sam found he related better to a frayed and worn piece of shit rubber than his own brother anymore. Stayed and watched the heat allow a thousand trails of split rock on the front porches bake the ground until it was all just one big crack in his concrete, never-ending and all surrounding, and he understood, because maybe he was splitting in two too. Months ahead now, and Dean wants to be in motion. 

Sam ignores the ache in his chest, a dull throb that’s ever growing, unraveling his nerves like tangled spaghetti, and Sam’s pretty fucking unsettled about it. Dean asks if he feels ok, and Sam would explain, but it’d be in one ear and out the other, just like it always is with Dean. He mutters a “Sure, Dean” because that’s all he ever says anymore, and turns to watch the color ooze from the sky, gloomy blues and purples dripping into greys, and he waits for black. They leave a streak of wraith blood in Indiana and then they’re gone again, a fuzzy cloud of sleek black metal and a couple of angsty brothers mad at the world. 

Dean’s dragged them across two borders and halfway through Iowa, and Sam’s just about ready to call it a day, convince Dean that Bobby will still be there in the morning when Dean pulls into a seedy Motel 6 off the highway anyway. They’ll need to stop for gas first thing tomorrow, the dial barely visible over the bright red ‘E’ signal, bright red and blurry in Dean’s vision. Two minutes go by and Sam hasn’t seen him blink once, and Sam can feel the burn behind Dean’s eyes secondhand, brilliant green even in the dull flicker of a burning-out street lamp hanging low over the passenger side. Knows he’ll see the light memory of the ‘E’ when he closes his eyes, but he also knows he’ll have the same problem unless he takes his gaze away from the green (so /green/) in Dean’s, so he clears his throat and jiggles the door impatiently, signaling his release. Dean’s back with a start, and Sam watches his jaw seize up and clamp down when he puts his eyes back on Sam again. Sam feigns ignorance at what’s on Dean’s mind, but for the first time it’s completely transparent, so he’s launching himself from the open door as soon as he hears the lift of the lock. 

The faint reflection of the neon ‘6’ on the sign overhead gleams on the slicked black ground, and Sam’s never been more grateful for a little rain than when he’s been boiling under his skin, blood churning and anger sizzling into heated veins, washing over him like a highway flare. Instantly, he’s cold, wind whipping wet lashes across flushed cheeks, and Sam’s really ready to get inside. Dean’s up against the bumper when he’s unloading duffel after duffel from the shotgun seat, his legs crossed, arms crossed over his chest, his skin-tight shirt pulled up on the shoulders. Sam tries not to think about how much he resembles a pissed, wet dog.   
Instead, he throws him a coat and leans up against the back door, fidgeting hands tucked into fleece pockets of an old Stanford sweatshirt. Sam rolls his eyes when Dean doesn’t budge. 

Dean likes to think he’s the hero of every action movie ever, immortal and all-powerful because his name’s first in the credits, but Sam knows him better than that, so he raises an eyebrow and brings up food. He gets into it took, suggesting spaghetti and garlic on toast, because he’s pretty sure they have all of the above in the trunk. He’s mid-sentence, head lolled back and eyes closed and talking about parmesan cheese when Dean’s unfixed and staring up at him with eyes full of want, and Sam tries not to remember what he’s really hungry for. Keeps his mind on the idea of his pissed, wet dog of a brother begging for a bone, -in this case spaghetti- all needy and soaked to the skull. 

Sam’s got a fistful of Dean’s shirt by the time he hears the clatter of Dean’s teeth clacking together, his body in a knot on the ground, tight and tense from the cold. He tugs him to his feet, and he’s so /fucking close/ but Dean’s shoving him off with a huff, swinging a bag over one arm and hooking the other around the loops of a duffel, back turned to Sam and the jacket thrown under the back tire. Sam snorts and picks it up with one finger, flips him off, and follows suit because like always, he has nothing better to do. 

Dean flirts with the night clerk like never before, teeth gleaming with just enough gum, and there was red on his teeth, but still fucking devilishly handsome as fucking ever, and Sam’s falling apart. Clerk gets them a room on the second floor, with free HBO and AC if they figure out how to work it. Dean’s holding himself up with his palms on the desk, rolling up his sleeves with the promise of following behind her, looking back at Sam with wink, pulling up an imaginary collar with a shrug of his shoulders. Sam rolled his eyes. He looked at his brother for a long time because Dean wasn’t looking at him. He gets to the room before he realizes, and then sits down on the bed with his back to the headboard, head in his hands and trying not to think about anything at all. 

 

Sam holes up in the bathroom to get away from his brother. He washes his hair, lets the water evaporate on his skin, and it’s boiling a little but at least it washes away the knot in his stomach. Scrubs his chest and combs through his hair, and yeah it’s early morning by now, but he’s wasting all the time he can before finally slinking back into the nothing motel room, where he gets hollered at by his brother for wasting precious hot water. 

He gets dinner from the vending machine outside and thinks about how messed up he really is. It feels good to make Dean mad, or at least, he likes knowing that he can. And then once Dean is yelling at him he’s yelling back, all that messed up cabin fever shit and anger and resentment built up and spilling over the rim, and all sorts of things are starting to go wrong again. It’s easier for Sam to get a sucker punch to the jaw as they head off to bed and the bathroom floor than to deal with aftermath, so he falls asleep on tile and he’ll do it again the next day. And in the morning, he tries to stop looking at Dean so much. 

In the morning, Sam picks crusted blood off of his eyelashes, eyes sealed shut. They aren’t talking, haven’t been talking since that stupid fucking argument the night before and Sam steals more glances at Dean. The TV’s on and he hears warnings of a serial killer hitchhiker from Montana on the news, but he’s busying himself by the sink, brushing his teeth and he’s doing it again, he’s relating to inanimate objects like a tube of toothpaste squeezed dry. He smooths one jittery hand from his hairline to the back of his neck, wiry and too-tall in the motel mirror, and inspects the reflection of his face on the glass. Examines the sharp drop of his nose and the curve of his lip and the dip of his forehead until Dean comes up behind him, spiking his hair with water from a spitting sink, angry spouts of spray that somehow reach Sam’s knuckles up against the counter. Sam’s staring again, but he gets it under control and tucks his legs into his jeans. Dean raises an eyebrow on the way out and tosses Sam his belt, and a “Morning to you too, Dean” slips out and his heart stops with the realization of the hanging silence that will follow, complete, blunt rejection that would haunt Sam for fuckin’ weeks, cause he’s sick like that, but Dean just snorts and then there’s a short, cut off “Yeah.” And Sam’s kind of ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter ends reallY sudden-ish but I promise you it's just cause there's no easy break-off between chapters anytime soon and I wanted to get around to posting today. Chapter 4 is on it's way and it's halfway done so !! see you soon ok rad


	4. Probable Cause for Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's got a hell of a tripwire but Sam's done treading lightly.

They’re at a diner like every diner they’ve ever been to and Sam’s silent. Dean’s got a menu in   
one hand for an excuse not to look at Sam. Neither has mentioned it yet, and Dean worries they never will. He twists his hands under the table and gets that awful feeling that he’ll spend the rest of his life in nothing diners, and everything’s going to fall apart, in various states of quiet   
like waiting for a telephone that never rang. Sam crosses his legs under the bar picks at his pie, catches Dean’s gaze just as his eyes flick away. 

“You’re a real jackass, you know that, Dean?” And Dean’s choking down a scalding sip of coffee to shield the tinge in his cheeks, relief washing over him in a warm glow that splashed up past his neck to his ears within seconds. They were //talking// about it. Sam was stirring his coffee with Dean’s fork, but he chooses to ignore the grimace on Sam’s face when crumbs float up to the top. Sam was nearing 23, and little shit like that still pisses him off. Dean’s smirk is an awkward one, a fake kind of smug that says ‘Watcha-gonna-do-about-it’ but it’s transparent, at least to Sam. Nothing is ever going to be as it’s supposed to be, Dean decides. It’s always going to be dodging the bullet and missing the point. Sam’s /always/ missing the goddamn point. 

“Are even fucking listening, you stupid motherfucker?” Dean takes another sip and tears his eyes away from the way Sam’s teeth come down on the meat of his bottom lip at ‘fucker’. Finds himself wondering how that word on Sam’s tongue would feel against his lips. Sam has a beautiful goddamn voice. Dean studies Sam for a long time. Figures he’s loving this new twisted kind of Sam more than he should, the kind that’s twisting up his stomach with every jab, and he fucking /loves/ it, because fuck, Sam’s snarling at him to fucking look at him and it’s chilling Dean to the bone. 

“I hear ya, Sammy.” Dean smirks, a kind of default setting when he’s got nothing left to say. 

“Do you, Dean? Because last time I checked,” Dean’s hand slams down on the table with a blunt smack, interrupting him and pinning a five dollar bill onto a checkbook. Gets to his feet and slips one arm through the sleeve of his jacket with a fist to his chest and a satisfied burp. 

“Sam. Don’t.” But Sam’s still going, and he’s following Dean out the door, fist clenched in Dean’s shirt the minute they’re up against the wall behind the diner. 

“You stupid fucking-” Sam’s up in his face, and there’s a scent like mildewy leather clinging to Dean’s neck and maybe Sam wants to lick it off but he shoves Dean right in his bruised ribs and leaves him gasping for air and slides in shotgun.

Dean catches his breath two miles East and he’s talking again, far away and barely audible just in case Sam’s not listening but that’s rarely the case, so he keeps rambling.

“See, that’s why we don’t talk about it. Shit happens, good days and bad, remember? And we can’t change it and your little pity party over here isn’t gonna save my life. M’just sayin’, maybe you should just accept the fact that-”

Sam is clutching the door handle like a crucifix in a church full of vampires, glaring at his brother, and Dean is starting to feel like he’s got a couple of daggers embedded in his ribs.

“Accept it?” Spit flies across the seats and lands on Dean’s cheek, but he’s frozen in place and he’s running on adrenaline and the tone of Sam’s voice, echoing through his ribcage. 

“You’re fucking dying, Dean. Tell me what part of that I’m supposed to accept, because, really, I’d love to know.” He’s pulling away from the seatbelt, tall enough to brush the sun visor with the top of his head, and he’s squinting at Dean, looking pained as hell. 

Dean shakes his head, dazed as ever and trying to keep his eyes on the road. This feels unusually scripted, and Dean doesn’t remember what he was supposed to say. It goes differently in his head. He finds new interest in the freshly cut grass on the side of a small-town road and veers onto the highway and away from the rest of it all because he really wants to fuck his brother sane again and the feeling isn’t going away anytime soon. The air is thick with unanswered questions and Dean knows Sam won’t let him hold them back much longer, but he sure as hell isn’t going to answer, and he really wants tacos so he slings an arm around the back of Sam’s headrest and ruffles his hair, taking his eyes of the road to grin at Sam. “M’starved.” 

*

Sam is watching him too carefully, eyebrows knitted together and mouth in a tight line, searching for something that Dean sure as hell isn’t gonna give him, but he’s got a mouth full of soft shell so he lets it go for now. Sam lost his appetite some unspoken conversations ago so he’s watching him eat and Dean really wishes he wouldn’t. 

“You scared?” It’s a stupid question, but it’s Sam’s only chance at breaking the ice. Never liked that phrase. In past experience, broken ice always meant freezing water and certain death.

Dean rolls his eyes, flushed cheeks full of mexican rice. Sam can be so fucking dumb. “Well damn, Sammy, you tell me.” He closes his eyes and drops his fork with a clink, tipping his chair back on two legs with a contented sigh. He cracks his eyes open one at a time, but Sam’s still there at the little table holding perfectly still, an impatient curiosity burning into a blistering anger, and Dean can see it on Sam’s cheeks. He scratches his stomach, and imagines having Sam in a bed somewhere hot where it just makes sense to get hotter. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Dean cracks his back with a faint pop, smirking at Sam’s grimace and yawns. “You talk so fucking big but y’know, you don’t give the orders around here.” It’s a challenging tone, but an empty threat, because he takes his straw between his teeth with a long sip, eyes always on Sam, never leaving. A waitress is making eyes at Dean from a few tables off as she’s seating a family of four with a promising smile towards his brother, but Sam’s eyes are cold enough to stop her heart. Dean is playing possum and pretending to be overly interested in the way last few sips of his ice water. He shivers, occupying himself with throwing away the scattering of crumpled straw wrappers. 

Sam hauls him out of there so fucking fast and knocks him to his knees and Dean’s not as fazed as he figures he should be. 

The day was a trainwreck, per usual, but it’s a good night. Dean isn’t gonna sleep at all, and he knows that already, but he jerked off in the shower after a dinner of flat soda and cold pizza, and now he’s sitting on the hood outside of some abandoned house in some nowhere town, and Dean’s pouring pop rocks into his mouth with one hand and the other stuffed in his pocket so he isn’t so tempted to pull Sam into a kiss so he can feel them on his brother’s tongue. It’s not even 10 p.m and Sam’s a little drunk off his ass right now but it’s one of Dean’s very favorite kind of Sam’s so he lets it slide for tonight. 

“Hey, Dean.” It’s not something Dean’s expected to answer, and Sam’s gonna keep talking anyway, so Dean leans back onto the windshield and kicks his feet into Sam’s lap, testing him. Sam doesn’t seem to care or maybe he’s too drunk to notice. “How come I’m supposed to sit around and watch you die, but like, it’s totally okay for you to bring my ass back from the dead?” He’s staring down into his bottle, and Dean figures he probably drained it already. 

And then, if you’ll believe it, 5 months passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think k? Cause at this point i'm debating whether or not to keep going.


	5. From The Backseat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re Sam and you know everything about your brother, you just don’t get him.   
> In which Sam's drunk on root beer and his brother's smile and Dean dreams of home in leather seats and in his brother's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yOooOooO how's it been?? This is getting along real nice and pretty it'll be pretty big, and who knows, maybe some angsty angry sex is coming along.

At first glance, Dean’s easy. You spend a month with him, and you think you know him real well. You spend your life with him, though, you pick up a few things. Spend that long with him, studying him and knowing him and becoming his echo, and you learn to read your brother like a weather vane reads a storm. You can tell what he’s feeling by how tight his jaw is, or how much he bites his bottom lip. You figured out how to sink into his bones and burrow into his rib-cage a long time ago, and you know what makes him tick like it’s your own heartbeat. You can tell what kind of nightmare he’s been having by what he drinks at the bar. You’re Sam Winchester, and you’re mildly hooked on your brother, but it’s nothing new. It’s a dull throb, pain in a phantom limb. You’re Sam and you know everything about your brother, you just don’t get him.   
***  
The thing about being Dean’s echo is that there’s more to not getting Dean then he likes to admit. He can’t understand his brother, and he doesn’t understand himself when it comes to his brother. Hell, Sam’s pretty bright in most areas of his life, and yeah, he can get by just fine with knowing Dean, but when he’s gotta break Dean down, pick him apart to get to the point, it all goes to hell. Point is, Sam Winchester is in love with his brother, and loving his brother is fucking him up, or maybe he loves his brother because he’s fucked up, but somewhere along the line, Sam’s head got screwed up. Either way, the amount of love for Dean is inevitably too much. 

It’s been half a year of this, this crazy winding road to hell - literally, at least on Dean’s side - and it can’t stay weird like this. It’s unbearable- this wretched half-life that he definitely never agreed to. Yeah, and it sucks, it does, but Sam can take it. Takes it like he needs it, ‘cause he kinda does. This new Dean, this dying, half alive Dean that keeps him in the dark? Sam eats it up, like it’s all he’s got-cause it is. If he still could, he’d lick it off Dean’s lips, take it all in, Dean’s fingers in his mouth-read as much of Dean as he still can. Sam made up his mind on that a long time ago. It’s not like that though; not the kind of life he lives anymore, but one day he'll be okay with that, and so he's done being angry.

Just like that, Dean materializes in front of him. His wrist flicks and a toothbrush chips off Sam’s forehead and lands behind the bed, and Sam will never see that again because, well, gross. Dean’s grin sneaks up on him, and Sam’s not even mad that he just tried to blind him. He’s eating him like a virus, and Sam’s decaying again, rotting slowly inside his bones, and they feel too big on him, just like before. He tells himself he won’t forget. Dean’s dying, and sooner or later he’ll drop dead, and maybe he’s fooling the rest of the world, but Sam knows. Dean likes to think so, but Sam knows you can’t cheat death if you’re digging your own grave. Sam still sees it: Dean burning up behind his eyes when Sam keeps them closed. 

Dean’s singing under his breath, a sort of off-key tune he picked up off a tape somewhere on the road, and Sam’s able to tune it out until he’s mumbling the end of the chorus, and Sam hears it enough on the road, so he throws a dirty sock in Dean’s direction, and it ricochets off his humming lips to the floor.   
“Dude!” Dean protests in a morning-low kind of growl.  
“Let’s let the originals sing that song, alright?” Sam asks, innocently enough. 

Dean’s face fell pretty fuckin’ epically, and Sam laughed, memorizing the look on Dean’s face; the wounded look in his eyes and the broken line of his eyebrows, his mouth parted in a small soft pout. Sam snickered under his sweatshirt and slipped it over his head, tucking his hood around his ears.   
“Cut it out, bitch, it wasn’t even that bad.”   
“Oh,” Sam laughed, “It really kinda was. Seven in the morning, dude, and you sound like Kermit the fuckin’ frog.”   
“Get a grip, Sammy, or you’ll get it.”  
“Bring it, motherfucker.”  
Dean’s eyes widened, his jaw set, and Sam was just asking for a headlock.

*

Days passed like the sunset over the hills, the last rays of light slipping over the hood of the Impala and trickling down into the flowers behind them, and at this point the sun has fried Sam to frayed nerve endings, but dragging a pissed-off-Sam along on long road trips was nothing new to Dean, and he got by, even when it was almost intolerable, and he was fucking drowning in Sam, Sam’s voice the loudest thing in his head. Dean still aches for him, but wanting to sleep with Sam has been a lifelong dilemma of his and he’s learned to cope, but seriously, it’s been months. Never admit it in the light of day, but fuck, he misses that boy like nothing the fuck else. 

Sam was just a kid when he started seeping into his brother, and yeah, alright, he had no fucking idea what he was doing to Dean, how he tortured him for entire summers; long stretches of roads and homes and miles, but to this day Dean still refuses to cut him any slack for any of it. Sam was thirteen or fourteen when Dean started dreaming about him. Those sick twisted dreams that made churned his stomach and made him delirious with heat and want and fuckin’ need, and Dean tries not to wonder if Sam’s ever caught that sleep grin of pure stupid delight on his face, and knew exactly what he was dreaming about. 

*

One day towards the end of fall, Sam used the word suppositious in a sentence.   
Dean lowered his lore and gave his brother a look, all narrowed eyebrows and knowing smirk.   
“Look at that mouth Sammy. Talkin’ so pretty.”   
Sam rolled his eyes and slammed the laptop shut with a loud smack, and slipped a sock off to scratch his heel.   
“It’s sad that intelligence is a sign of weakness to you.” Sam said, nails scuffing against scabbing skin, courtesy of a nail lodged in his left foot a couple of months back. “Probably don’t even know what it means.”  
“Likely.” Dean shot back almost automatically. “It’s like, based on assumption, right? Like, nothing’s for sure. Educated guess.”   
Dean made a mental note of Sam’s slow blink of surprise, like a deer in the headlights. Then, he had a faceful of Sam’s sock, thrown at immeasurable speed before he could react.  
“Hey, not bad, Dean. Read that in the newspaper or something?” Sam snorted.   
“Know what? Shutting the fuck up would be great right now.”   
“Hey, nothing wrong with a little literary pursuit, I’m just,” Sam clicked his tongue, enjoying this way more than he probably should. “A little surprised you set down the Hustler to improve your vocabulary.”   
Dean threw a pen his way, but Sam ducked and dodged it with an easy grin.   
“Whatever.” Dean was pretty much done by now, kinda pissed off no matter how Sam looked smart-mouthed and smirking. “You gonna start printing vocabulary flashcards or are we gonna get the fuck back on the road?”

*

7 months down the road to Hell and Dean counted the days by tallies on the bottom of his boot, carved into the rubber. They pass the South Dakota state line sign, and a sly smile slides over Sam’s lips.   
“Dude. We should totally stop for root beer. Is there like, a supermarket coming up, or something?”  
“Twenty miles-ish. 7-eleven.” Dean shrugs, cracking his knuckles against the wheel.   
“I’m gonna get like four.” Sam grins, his own knuckles rapping against the dashboard. “If they have them, maybe a six pack.”  
Sam’s smile is growing in strength, spreading across his face, and Dean feels it slip under his skin, scrape against the raw parts of his heart, pulling on every ribbon of it, and he smiles back unconsciously, and rolls down the window.  
“You’re gonna piss like a racehorse, Sammy boy. It’ll be your own damn fault, too.”  
“Yes I know.” Sam’s arms folded across his chest, excitement still at its peak. Dean is ok now, the outside world under his control again, as he speeds past wheat and wheat and more wheat, that essential sense that driving gave him, made him complete. It’s raining, and it clatters against the soft part of Dean’s skull, and Sam is happy; happy about the simple things, like rain and root beer and a nearby 7-Eleven and they’re sitting close enough that Sam can feel the rain fly in and sit against his temple.

Sam’s out in a flash, a bundle of glass bottles in both arms, sparkling eyes and twinkling smile.   
“No 6-packs, so I just grabbed eight.”

Then, sooner than later, they’re parked in the cornfields, and Sam’s explaining things in great enthusiasm, shoving Dean for every corny joke or stomping his foot for every bottle cap flicked his way. They’re in the rain, against the hood, because the backseat was more cramped than they remembered and it got sticky with humidity, and besides, Sam was fuckin’ gorgeous when soaked. Bad news: Dean has to hold back the temptation of licking water droplets and root beer of his lips. The bottle of root beer in his lap is down to a couple last swigs, and it’s probably Sam’s third, and yeah, ok, maybe he knows that Dean slipped in a little liquor, but he’s past caring. 

“So you get what I’m saying, right? How fuckin’ crazy is that?” Sam’s eyebrows ready to fly off of his face, drawing urgent shapes. “I mean, like, buying forgiveness? And they believed it too, like, this one billionaire spent millions on Indulgences. Like, they’d buy those things up if they even thought about sinning. The Church controlled everything man. Made them scared of themselves. But it’s all in their heads, and that’s basically the Awakening for you.” He breathes out, swallowing a finishing gulp of his root beer. 

Dean’s taking a swig of whiskey and watching Sam like the Superbowl.   
“I hear ya, Sam.” And he was only half lying.   
“M’just saying, these guys couldn’t get play cards, dance, get drunk.” His arms swing out and land in Dean’s laps.  
“Ah, you’re pretty drunk.”  
Sam shrugged. “A little buzzed. S’your fault.”   
“Anyway,” Dean cleared his throat. “What’re we gonna tell Bobby? S’not gonna do any good. He probably knows something’s up. We’ll be over there for a while, maybe catch up, sleep a little. It’s been awhile since we got more than a few hours.” 

That catches Sam, his mouth open, eyes hooded and fighting the alcohol. Dean shifts in his seat, obviously uncomfortable at the speculation, hearing the car’s creak of protest. Sam shed years when he got drunk, a tired puppy on the verge of tears for no reason at all, and it’s difficult for Dean to look at him-really look- for more than a second.   
“I-I still think we should go. I, um, I think it’ll be good for him. To know what’s going on, y’know? I mean, while you’re still...” Sam means alive. Dean knows, and he also knows Sam’s trying to find a loophole. Trying to find some way to get out of this with Bobby’s help. And Dean’s smiling (Why’s he smiling?) and he knows it’s no good but Sam has hope and he’s never been one to take that away on purpose, but he knows they’re never gonna get to Bobby’s anytime soon. It takes him a minute to realize they’ve been chasing the highway for almost three weeks now, haven’t hunted in almost twice as long, and Dean’s really really happen then, if kind of surprised. 

Sam finishes off his fifth root beer and pisses for the third time behind the car. Dean says ‘I told you so’ and then made Sam promise to go to the ocean with him. They staggered into the car, Sam in the backseat, Dean’s face pressed into the front seat, breathing in the homey scent of leather and closing his eyes to better imagine Sam settling into his chest while they sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think, n stuff. I'm slowly getting into the next chapter, but it could probably use a proof read or five. Should be up shortly, though. Enjoy!


	6. Dead Man Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a beach day goes wrong, Dean's a handsy drunk, Sam's an angsty stubborn ass, and Dean makes the first bad move of the night. Translation: Dean /really/ shouldn't have gone in for that kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's hear some thoughts on foreshadowing ok? Tell me what you think happens next.

A few states out, and Dean’s drunk off his ass in the backseat and he’s earned maybe seven hundred from hustling pool tonight, but it doesn’t even matter at this point because Sam’s gotta carry them out to the car fast enough before the dumbasses in there know what hit them, and Dean is useless under his arm, boneless and limp with a ridiculous amount of his weight on his brother. Finds himself thinking that maybe if the room would stop spinning so much, then maybe he’d put all of his weight on him. 

Back home, Dean is dumped onto the nearest mattress and staring up at the chipping ceiling and thinking about how Sam’s really fuckin’g beautiful when he’s sweaty and pissed.   
“Do me a favor, Dean, and try to stay conscious enough to change your clothes before you pass out, because motherfuck you stink.”  
“Later,” Dean says beneath a pillow, drooling on Sam’s sheets.   
“You’ll be drowning in your own sick later. Now.” Sam goes into the bathroom with a wash cloth and comes out with it wet, Dean’s pajama pants slung over his shoulder, then thrown to the bed.   
“You’re welcome.” 

Dean grumbled something inaudible and threw them off the edge of the bed. Sam’s standing over him with a hand around the back of his neck, obviously exhausted, and Dean doesn’t remember him being that tall, but he doesn’t care because he wants to climb him like a tree and wrap up in his limbs. 

“Get the fuck out, Sam, and let the drunk guy be, hear me?”   
“Oh yeah, woulda worked great back there. You’d probably get your ass beat, maybe make it out alive if you’re lucky, but yeah, you’re right, you can take care of yourself when you’re lit, huh?”   
“God, shut up.”   
“Fuckin’ dumb is what you are, Dean.” And Sam’s really never taken it lightly when Dean brushes him off. 

“Yeah, ok. Says you. You’re like,” Dean lets his hands flail around in exaggerated motions, eyes half lidded, “there’s not even a word for how dumb you are.” Sam laughs, high with disbelief and broiling anger. 

“That’s rich, coming from you, brother mine. I’m guessing if there was a word for it, it just wouldn’t be in your vocabulary.”   
“So fuckin’ dumb.” Dean tsks, waving Sam away with the back of his hand. 

“The hell?” Sam slams him against the headboard, hard enough to blur Dean’s vision just a little bit more, but Sam is crackling with energy and it’s the last thing he cares about. 

“Dumb, am I? Wanna elaborate?” He hisses through clenched teeth, and Dean sees red too. Dean pushes his brother up and off as much as he can, fingers barely getting a grip on Sam’s arms. 

“Don’t gotta. It’s so easy. So fucking easy, and you still don’t see.” Dean swallows hard, not daring to look past Sam’s steel jaw, fearing that terrified light in his brother’s eyes. And Sam’s right. Sam probably had the words in his vocabulary somewhere, but in Dean’s there were none, so he shoves Sam off the bed and falls on top of him, pulling him into a fierce kiss and twisting his fingers into Sam’s hair, not letting him go that easy. Sam gasps, shaking with every breath and his grip too tight on Dean’s shoulders. Dean pulls away, eyes still closed and damn sure not to let Sam out of his reach. “So dumb,” he announces, slumping against the wall, and letting Sam shuffle out from under him, and he’s scooting away but it takes Dean a minute to realize he’s dragging them both to their feet,and he groans in protest, rubbing his spinning head. 

“Easy, Sammy boy, or i’ll puke on your socks.” There was a moment, a fragile span of seconds where Sam doesn’t bother to hide his stare, Dean pinned to the wallpapered wall, and his gaze ran furiously over Dean’s face. 

“The fuck?” He spat, as if they hadn’t spent half of their lives like that, bruised lips and bruised hearts and speechless and sex-sated. As if none of it mattered because Dean was going to hell and /oh/. Oh, Sam must really hate him, and maybe Dean was wrong about that move. Dean took in Sam’s mouth, that stiff hard line and eyes like searchlights, searching plea reflecting into Dean’s own, and he tore down his walls, and let every piece of his shattered heart shine through to his brother, because hell, he was drunk, and what did he have to lose?   
“Did it for you, Sammy baby.” Dean croaks, stroking Sam’s cheek, but his hand is pawed away. 

“Wasn’t for me, swear it. Wanted you to have a life, y’know? You deserved that, an’ I, I had to.” Sam turns away, gasping and hacking against the carpet, and Dean thinks he’s gonna be sick if Sam is, because that’s really not how he’s hoping this is going. 

“Just don’t think it’s right. Fuckin’ torture how you’re shutting me out when I only have- a few months.” Dean shudders, wiping spit from his chin. Sam whirls around, clutching Dean by the throat.

“What was that, Dean?” He snarled through gritted teeth, eyes dark black lines that dared Dean to speak, but Dean was focusing on Sam’s thigh against his crotch. 

“Wanna say that again?” He’s inches away, and so fucking close and Dean wants to kiss him again but Sam’s not done talking and when is he ever and Dean really wishes he was sober enough to understand where Sam is going with this. “Just gonna leave me here while you’re down there in the pit and expect me to move on and get a fucking life? S’that what you wanted? Tell me, what part of that isn’t for you? Who said I ever fucking want a life after you?” 

OH. Dean is so fucked. Mostly because he gets where Sam was coming from now but also because he is getting achingly hard under Sam’s touch and control.   
“Sam.” He breathes out, and there’s a light airy tone to it, but it sends electric pulses through Sam’s heart and he has to turn away. 

“Lookit me, kid.” Dean pleads, tugging Sam his way, and he’s losing his fucking mind because he was so fucking stupid. “God, Sammy. I didn’t know. Thought that’s what you wanted. Never wanted to leave you alone.” 

“Jesus, Dean, if you don’t shut the fuck up I swear to God.” In the dark, Dean’s fingernails press crescents into his sweaty palms and he has to keep from swinging a hit.

“I’ve never wanted to throw a punch at anyone more than you right now, kid.” Sam sniffs almost defiantly, nose turned up towards the sky as if waiting for the blow. “But when it comes down to it, I’m dying either way, and I know you, man, and whether you’re gonna admit it or not, this is gonna end up killing you too and you’re wasting my time,” but he means ‘our time’ and they both know it too, “with your angsty bullshit.”   
Sam’s jaw clenches and he puts his hands behind his head with a deep sigh.   
“It’s killing me right now.” He murmurs to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear what you think's coming for the boys.,.,.,


	7. Wet Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has a wet dream. Angsty, believe it or not.   
> Smut to come, I swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo it's been a while, huh?   
> I'm losin' motivation, but I'm working on that.

It started with the backseat.

Pennsylvania had started rust-belting its way into Ohio about an hour back, and the world outside looks sun-bleached and sad, like Dean’s last pair of clean underwear he left on the railing two states back. He curses and looks back through the rear-view like it’s half reasonable to turn back for them. 

He hasn’t touched his brother in a week. 

Dean misses his brother’s touch like nothing else, the pads of his fingers calloused and dry, and he wants to crawl out of skin because he hasn’t so much has brushed against Sam in fucking days. 

Sam’s asleep in the backseat and Dean wonders how he can look pissed off even in sleep. He and Sam have been going at it since last Tuesday. Dean just aches all over. Wants all of it done with so he can go back to kissing his brother outside of his sick head. Dean clenched his teeth, yawning. Thinks about how good Sam tastes when Dean’s between his legs. Boy, it’s been months. 

Dean adjusts his jeans, wincing at the movement on his half-hard cock. He’s had Sam’s cock memorized since the day the boy turned 15. Knows the weight of it in his palm and the width of it in his grip, slow-stroking him in the movie theaters when Sam was in grade 10. 

Knows it better when it’s fat against his tongue - when he doesn’t even have to look up at Sam to know he likes it. Dean sucks in his lip without thinking, and takes a glance back at Sam. He’s shifted now, and Dean’s jacket isn’t covering him anymore. 

Dean wants to fuck Sam’s mouth and give him everything he hasn’t dreamed of wanting, yet. Spoil him and stuff him full.

Dean takes in a breath and lets his arm fall from the headrest to his side, and imagines it’s sleeping from Sam’s boney shoulder. The window’s cracked, and the air rolls in cool over his skin. 

He finds himself wanting to lace his fingers into Sam’s and suck him off first thing in the morning. Wants Sam to spill on his tongue. 

Sam feels good.

Dean remembers that much. God, it’s been months but it feels like centuries. When he closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, Sam’s there, and he’s warm and his arms are snaking down to hug Dean in reverse, chin against his shoulder. 

His eyes shoot open again when he hears his name stir from Sam’s lips like a last breath escaping from his throat.  
“Dean.”

Dean shifts his hips against his seat belt, and he imagines that Sam’s awake. He needs to jerk off, but he hasn’t been out of a four foot vicinity of his brother in days and he’s not going to play /that/ game when Sam’s this pissed. 

“Ah,” Sam gasps, “Uh,” They’re hardly more than huffs of breath. “Uh,” Sam says again, and then, in the softest whisper, “Yeah, Dean, Yeah,”

“Ah, shit,” Dean bites out through his teeth to no one in particular. His fingernails dig into the heel of his hand, palming at his dick with the other. He refused to believe this was anything other than it was.

Sam was dreaming and he was just really fuckin’ confused right now, and Dean really shouldn’t take advantage of this, but he was already sporting a semi from earlier and it couldn’t hurt if Sam was asleep. 

God, Sam’s good like this, though. Strung out even in sleep, and his back is turned to Dean, but he figures Sam’s usual bitch face is appeased at least for a little while. Dean thinks about this constantly; wonders what Sam thinks about when he’s dead asleep this way - when even Dean can’t fuck him over. 

Dean sighs and tilts his head to the side, heavy with the silent contemplations that’s settled over him that is Sam at peace. Dean runs his tongue along along the top of his teeth and looks at the darkening sky. He fishes a flask from his chest pocket and he knocks back a generous shot, cheering in Sam’s direction and turning up the volume on the radio to drown out Sam’s moans. Radioshack. “S’one’s for you Sammy.”

And later, Dean will have wished he ended up jerking off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know. PAinfully short. Sorry about that! Lot to do lately.


	8. Fire in Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first time in a long time, and Sam's starting to come to terms with the Hell thing.  
> Besides, he could never hold off on sex with Dean for very long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, smuT!

“You fuckin-” Sam grits his teeth, glaring at Dean like it’s all he knows how to do.

“Arngh!” He barrels into Dean hard, and Dean’s sent sprawling into the dust, cackling and clawing at Sam’s back. 

Sam’s face is flushed beet red and he’s shaking in Dean’s lap, the fall sending him crashing against Dean’s chest, and he shouldn’t feel so fucking turned out, but hell. Dean swiped his hand across his mouth and it came away as bright as his eyes, lit up like huge fires burning very far away.

There’s red on his teeth, and something breaks in Sam’s mind. He puts his hand against the cold bricks behind Dean’s head, leans in and licks the copper tint from his brother’s bottom lip. And then Sam jerks away so fast he almost falls over.

“Fuck, I-” He is shaking underneath, not showing it, no idea how to stop. His muscles are tight as guitar strings, hands balled into fists and staring helplessly back at Dean.

Dean won’t even look at him. He’s in some kind of shock, probably they both are. Sam stands up and bites hard on his bottom lip. He can’t get past the memory of it, leaning in, hand against the wall, the brief taste of Dean’s warm mouth on his tongue. 

“Sorry. I. Sorry, man.” 

Dean’s mouth curls up in an undeniable sneer. He rubs his hand over his mouth and doesn’t say anything at all, and it feels like Sam’s blood is going to vibrate right out of his fucking skin. 

 

“Look, fuck, it was some stupid adrenaline thing, I-” 

They weren’t talking. Haven’t said a word for miles, and Sam took the wheel and drove them out of there without even asking to drive. It’s been at least a hundred miles since then. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Dean croaked, and there’s a new kind of panic at the edge of his words. Dean’s eyes are dark and cold, glaring at his brother with this black impossible thing growing behind them. 

Sam looks like he’s been slapped. Dean’s angry for some reason--and the idea made Sam’s blood run hot. He tries again. 

“N-no, Dean, really, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, I-”

“I said shut _up_ ,” it came out hoarse and pleading, and Sam’s heart snagged at the edge of his ribcage. 

Dean’s brain is buzzing, humming inside his skull, and he’s blinking rapidly like he’s got his eyes open underwater. 

“D-Dean-” He’s too close. Breathing against Sam’s jaw and Sam doesn’t remember pulling over but here they are.

He reaches for the door in case he needs a quick escape, terrified and pressed against the car with his heart a hammer in his chest. 

“Dean, wait, you know we’re not like that any-”

“You lied,” Dean says, rushed and muffled through his teeth, “You said it doesn’t mean anything,” closer still, “that was a fuckin’ lie.” 

“N-no Dean, we can’t-” Sam shook his head some more, because he swore he wouldn’t, and he was getting really fuckin’ dizzy.

“Yes we can,” Dean insists, and his hands slam into Sam, wrenched in his shirt, and jerks him forward. 

“Yes, we can.” He says, and then he kisses his brother again. 

And it was Dean, so Sam being Sam and only friggin’ human, he kissed him back. An unbelievable heat rise up Sam’s spine and he shudders hard against Dean, clutching at his collar, and he feels Dean’s teeth slide across his lip. 

And at first, Sam lets it happen. 

And Dean licks into Sam’s mouth, wraps one hand around the back of his neck, and Sam kinda gasps against his lips. Dean tastes like sugar and liquor and fire and other things that are dangerous in high doses, and Sam pushes up against him and he could do this for fucking days. 

He breaks away, gasping for air because he’s friggin’ drowning in Dean. Dean pulls him back with that devastating grip on the back of his head, ragged sound of his breathing against his mouth. 

“Hang on, hang on,” Sam pulls his head back, panting and lost in it enough to forget his words as Dean begins the appointed task of planting bruises along his neck.

“What? Come on you fucker, don’t stop,” Dean breathed out, hot and wet and leaning forward again, snatching kisses along Sam’s jaw. 

Sam pushes away again, hot and heady and his stomach roiling, mouth on fire. Hysteria creeps along his edges because _fuck_ this wasn’t right, this can’t happen again, not when Dean’s- 

“Wait, would you just wait, I-” Sam was still processing. He waited until his lungs were working again and then said, “Why don’t you care that this is a bad idea?” 

Dean shrugged casual-like, but it was rushed and forced and his eyes were hot on Sam, something tense and eager in the green that you’d only see if you were looking for it. 

“Dunno, why’re you so against it alluva sudden?”

“M’not,” Sam answered swiftly, “I just- with hell. This-this is gonna end badly.” 

“You bitch.” Dean snorts into a bottle of beer Sam didn’t see him grab. “This about hell? I told you. We’re all going to hell. What’s one more soul? ‘Sides. Can’t pretend you hate me for that anymore, S’mmy. So what’s your point? “

“No point,” Sam said, and then because he couldn’t help it, he slid his hands underneath Dean’s t-shirt. Warm smooth skin underneath his palms and Dean’s needy sounds in Sam’s ears, and then, in the space of a breath Sam pulled him closer, never wanting to breath easily again. 

And then with perfect clarity, his mouth flesh against Dean’s, he thought, _your brother is kissing you now_ and then, for no reason at all that Sam could see, he was laughing into Dean’s open mouth. It was just that particular moment, that thought like a neon sign in the dark of the road. It was funny for no good reason, and Sam hummed with the euphoria of it all. 

“Dude, what the fuck?”

“I. It’s okay, Dean, I- fuck, all of it, it’s just so-”

“No one knows what the fuck you’re saying.” 

“Sorry.” Sam said, grinning in the dark. 

“Look, you gonna giggle some more, or am I gonna get in you?”

Sam smiled. Wrapped his hand tight around Dean’s waist. “Yeah. Sorry about that.” 

But he was still sniggering, chortling with his mouth mashed up against Dean’s. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean said, meaning to sound furious, but it didn’t come out like that, instead all weak and desperate.

“So fucking much. Gonna fuck me?”

Dean shook his head, meaning, /You’re a piece of work kid/ but his mouth said “Okay,” 

And his arms were around Sam in a matter of seconds, pure instinct. He could feel the press of Sam’s ribs against his collarbone, and Sam’s fingers pressing a trench in his back. He could feel him breathing out hot and fast, his mouth searing, already working carefully at a certain spot. 

This was really happening. Sam was going to let him fuck him after 9 goddamn months of silence. After Dean fucked up in the car and told him about hell. After Dean hurt him real bad. This wasn’t a dream of the worst prank of all time. Sam wasn’t drunk or poisoned or cursed, he was just dumb and in love. 

This was nothing other than what it was. 

Dean shuddered under his brother’s hands. 

Sam moaned against Dean’s mouth and shoved him backwards onto the seat, crawling after with half his weight slotted between his brother’s legs. 

“Sammy, you-” Dean’s whole body jerked, a gasp flying out of him, want and need hammering at his skull, but then he didn’t really want to say it so he just worked his fingers inside Sam, tight grip on his hip, “I- I didn’t think you still-”

:”I did, I do, I mean- It’s always, always been for me. Never stopped, I-” his fingers scrabbled at Dean’s belt, clambering and clacking against warm metal. Dean started having trouble breathing, and he pressed his forehead to Sam’s cheek, his eyes closed, hyperventilive silence cloaking them. 

“Jesus, why-”

“Because fuck you that’s why,” Sam’s tangible grin against Dean’s eyelids and he gasped again. It was so good, so impossibly good. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, tears along his cheek, indistinct in the heat of it all, voice ruined and wrecked, “For me too.” 

 

Sam’s tongue teases inside his mouth and his hand digs into Dean’s thigh like an anchor, and Dean’s wrapped up in his brother again.


	9. A Conversation with Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A handjob, a bathroom floor, and a final goodbye.

They don’t talk about it. Less than twelve hours later and they’re on the road again, find a motel off the highway. Sam woke up in a motel bed by himself, Dean’s back to him on a separate twin mattress that seemed farther away than usual.

It’s a rule between the two of them, one of those unspoken ones that always seemed to mean more. Dean kept his distance afterwards, while they weren’t exclusive. No strings attached, at least not the obvious ones. Sometimes Dean slips up. Let’s Sam crawl under his skin for days at a time. Never could get enough. Not this time, though. Not with hell this close at Dean’s heels.

A few feet away, Dean’s got a pulse that pounds uncomfortably in his throat. Dean has gone largely numb, a kind of defense mechanism he develops when he needs one. 

It’s been ten months since the car ride where Sam bled across the back-seats and Dean ran his first two red lights trying to get Sam to safety. Ten months and one night since he told Sam about the deal he’d made. 

Rough few months, if Dean could say so.  
Seemed like years ago, but hell, it wasn’t even one. Now, with hell so near in his future, the time frame has been ground into Dean’s skin; printed on him like a tattoo. 

Handling it badly, they’re both just handling it badly. Dean shouldn’t have done that, really shouldn’t have done that. They never talk about it. 

A few minutes pass, totally silent save for the shuffling of a restless Sam between the sweat-sticky sheets. 

Dean hears a muffled snort behind him, and turns to find Sam hiding a smile behind his hand. Dean groans inwardly, mentally preparing to roll his eyes if Sam brings it up directly. 

Sex hair. 

Couldn’t exactly pretend to be unconscious either: he made it clear he was awake when he fuckin’ _turned_. 

A pulse of anger throbs through Dean, incredulous and overpowering. Sam shouldn’t have this power over him. 

He closes his eyes again and pretends to doze off again. Sam’s probably got an eyebrow higher than his hairline right about now, or maybe he’s flipping Dean off with a giant-ass smirk on his face 100 watts over what he usually gives him.

Sam’s always a little smug after sex.

Dean wants to get a good look at it, wants to so bad, dying to, but he’s all weirdly twisted up in Sam and the throb in his heart feels rooted in his goddamn soul, and he shouldn’t let Sam get to him like this. Not anymore. Told himself he wouldn’t. 

Sam comes around to Dean’s front, his gaze intent, thin, nervous mouth twitching and level with Dean’s. Within arms reach, but Dean tries not to think about that. Dean gazes up dopily at his brother, and strange thoughts are surfacing to his mind again. He remembers last night and blinks rapidly, trying to get his mind back in order. 

Quick easy smile from Sam and it does something to him, shocking twist of heat in his stomach. 

Dean holds still, holds his breath, prays that Sam keeps his distance so he isn’t so tempted to grab him by the jaw for a kiss anymore. 

“Morning, De.” Sam mumbles, standard sleep-slurred tone to his voice, and his hand closes warmly on Dean’s naked side, and Dean’s breath hitches, a sharp gasp.

“Oh, dude _gross_.” Sam says, his forehead knotting as he jerks his head back dramatically at the close proximity of Dean’s breath. “Booze before bed and you didn’t think to brush your teeth?” 

It’s all an act, though, because soon he’s leaning in to press chapped lips to Dean’s flushed forehead and this time he hasn’t moved back. 

Dean flicks a look at his face, compelling himself to keep still, for Sammy’s sake. Finds Sam staring with hooded eyes at the place where the bruises on his neck have faded into mouth-shaped plum spots scattered along his throat. 

“The _fuck_ are you looking at?” Dean snaps sharply, and clumsily brings his fingers to the spot Sam’s looking at. His head is spinning, and his heart feels heavier than iron. 

“Dean, listen.” Sam says, and then stops there. Dean watches Sam’s throat as it moves, rubbing his fingers over his own. 

“I can’t keep it up like it was. Can’t go back.” Sam says, and Dean forgives the hitch in his voice.

“What?” and Dean’s blood runs cold. When in doubt, best play dumb. “Fuck are you even talking about?” 

Sam makes a far-off whimpering sound and then touches his splayed fingers across Dean’s chest, where Dean becomes suddenly /very/ aware of their presence. 

Dean looks down at it again, and then back up at his brother. “What?” He asks in perfect, staged confusion.

Sam doesn’t answer, just trails his fingers lightly down Dean’s abdomen, and Dean jerks, eyes going wide. Tells himself he can’t. Not again. 

“Sam.” He breathes out, and he means _stop_ but it doesn’t come out like that, wrecked and pleading and the words won’t come out. 

Half-closed eyelids and his face is on fire, Sam hanging over Dean’s bed, Dean naked and vulnerable underneath him. 

He steps forward, feet shuffling along the carpet, and Dean figures he’s wearing Dean’s favorite socks. He pushed the thought away because Sam is crowding him against the sheets and it’s getting harder to breathe. 

His callused fingers scuffing across Dean’s ribs makes Dean arch his back, and he hisses. Sam is dipping lower, hair in front of his eyes, one hand along Dean’s ribs and the other sliding down to-

“Oh god what’re you,” Dean manages, croaked and forced, bitten off with a curse as Sam’s fingers shape around his dick and tug. Dean’s hips jerk into the touch against his will, and what _is_ this? 

The fuck is happening right now?

Dean is coming apart and hot tears are spilling along his cheeks, and Sam’s voice comes in a pleading whisper, forehead pressed to Dean’s. 

His fingers scrabble at Sam’s shoulders, insanely not pulling away, pushing him forward, numb against it all. 

“Can’t- Love you too much to see you go without- please, just once-” And Sam is mumbling almost unintelligibly, hot scraps of breath against Dean’s forehead, and his hand is perfect, working at Dean’s cock like he’s meant for it. 

And it’s wrecking Dean to hear it so he doesn’t let him finish, and instead pulls his head dwn by his hair and pulls him into a searing kiss, Sam’s open mouth searing and _exactly_ what Dean needs to get him there, and this is it,

this is pretty much all it’s gonna take to get him off, and then-

“Fuck, no, fuck,” He’s pulling away gasping, shaking furiously against Sam’s frame. 

Sam rips himself away from Dean almost immediately. It takes a fraction of a second, less than a thought, then he’s rolling off the bed and onto the stained carpet, scrabbling for his jeans, white hot terror across his face. 

Dean might as well be a ghost, gaping eyes and stunned mouth, all color drained from his earlier flushed face. 

He’s still shirtless and rock-hard, and staring at Sam, who’s staring back.

Dean falls against the wall. He’s panicking, he can feel it, disbelieving arousal still pulsing through him, hot and poisoning, crippling him from the inside. 

Whole body mostly numb, Dean blinks a couple times and figures it’s probably best for all involved if he never touched Sam again. 

There’s a place on Dean’s neck that itches and burns under Sam’s previous gaze, and he can still remember the soft crush of Sam’s hair in his hands. He shakes in his skin, feeling sick and dizzy, and suddenly he’s retching and gagging and vomiting across the carpet.  
When he opens his eyes again, he can still feel Sam pressed against him, huge hand upon his chest. 

You could leave, Dean says to himself and considers the possibility.

Sam would get over you easy enough, Dean thinks. 

Falls chest-first into his own sick and passes out. 

Comes to in the bathroom, where Sam’s handing him some pills and a beer, a typical Winchester thing to do. 

“Dean-” Sam says below a whisper, and Dean leans against the toilet, silent. “If there’s even a chance- I gotta know.” 

Dean can’t speak. Reaches out to touch the inside of Sam’s wrist instead. Sam’s head jerks up, searching Dean intently. 

Doesn’t say anything. Can’t. Doesn’t want to set things in stone he knows he can’t with only two more months left to live. Draws an infinity symbol along Sam’s wrist that makes him want to cringe with the cliche of it all. 

But Sam gets it. Sam always does. 

Dean looks back at him, corner of his eye. Sam’s eyes are half-mast and brimming with tears, and Dean wonders for the first time how much sleep Sam got, dark plum-colored circles outlining his eyes.

Sam’s mouth moves, fast urgent shapes moving, but Dean can’t hear him. Dean gazes at his brother, knees touching on the tile, blinding to anything else. 

Sam has Dean by the shoulders, pulling him up into a sitting position, hands cradling Dean’s head, and Dean kinda twists away because his head’s still throbbing despite the four aspirin he swallowed, same stomach-turning disbelief. 

Dean snaps back. His hearing returns in a rush and Sam’s voice is clear in his ear, running water against his eardrums. 

Dean wipes his eyes clear. 

“I’m okay, s’okay, Sammy.” But he’s crying against Sam, harsh, grating sobs that wrack through his body like the aftershocks of an earthquake. 

He shudders, recovering, eyes shut firmly against the gentle swipes of Sam’s fingertips on his lids. 

Sam and Dean are quiet. Sam’s fingers inch under the base of Dean’s collarbone, brushing at the bare skin along the bone. 

His head is fucking killing him. This has never stopped Dean. 

Sam registers fear for a moment, and his fingers pause against the risen goosebumps. Sam’s eyes wide, searching and ridiculous and Dean wants to laugh at him, the absurdity of his expression. 

So he does, head back and eyes closed, falling into Sam’s lap, and when Sam gasps, jerking up, Dean finds himself closing his fist in Sam’s collar and kissing him, 

one last time, he decides. 

Sam looks half-asleep again, though very much awake now, and there’s color on his cheeks as he smiles down at his brother, who gives a sad helpless smile back. 

“It’s okay, you know. We’re okay, this is okay,” Sam says in a breathy rush, “We’re gonna make it work, Dean, you’ll see, I’m not gonna let you get away, Hell can’t stop us, I-”

Dean snorts, let’s his head loll to the side. “See, that’s not really okay, Sammy. You gotta know that’s not how it works.”

“We can’t, Sammy. You can’t stop this, and this,” he presses a kiss to Sam’s thigh, weak and barely conscious. And Sam almost sobs, heaving. 

“Dean-”

“Know what, Sammy? Save it. You keep saying that shit like I’m supposed to believe it or something. This is it, honestly Sam.”

.  


 

Sam is dead asleep to the world when Dean creeps away for the last time, and he’s done looking back so Dean writes a note and raids the cupboards for enough food to last a while, careful to leave Sam his share. 

He leaves the Impala’s keys on the counter and figures he can hail a taxi and leave the car with Sam, since he’d need to take care of it when the hell-hounds dragged Dean off anyways.


End file.
